Art House

Still Birth

I itch to write yet the words elude me, I yearn to pour forth but I can’t reach the source
My thoughts are contained but my imagination is trapped in a box filled with dotted lines and my page blank with hope.

With so much to say and very little to relate,
My unborn ‘child’ kicks harshly in my minds womb
I hear it crying, set me free, let me be
But labour’s date is far from near thirst as I might for it’s arrival

Yet still I must write though the words elude me,
I struggle to pour forth but alas
I can not reach the source.

Posted from WordPress for BlackBerry.

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